


Day Twenty-Five

by TheLittleRedWhoCouldWrite



Series: 30+ Days of TFW Imagines [25]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Ambiguous Reader Gender, Gen, Reader-Insert, Self-Harm, trigger warning: talk of suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-03
Updated: 2015-12-03
Packaged: 2018-05-04 15:57:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5339936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLittleRedWhoCouldWrite/pseuds/TheLittleRedWhoCouldWrite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Imagine yourself on the other end of Dean/Sam/Cas' phone when you thought you were calling a suicide hotline when you are ready to give up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Day Twenty-Five

**Author's Note:**

> This fic does include several things that may be triggering to some people. Proceed with caution.

Dean:

“This is Dean.”

The man’s voice is low and rough, and yet friendly. You immediately picture an open, handsome face with a cheeky smile.

“Hello?

A harsh sob tears itself from your chest. “I… I can’t…”

“Whoa, darling. Deep breaths for me. Can you tell me your name?”

You clutch the phone, pulling your knees up to your chest. “Y/N.”

“Hi, Y/N. Tell me what’s going on. Take your time.”

You stare at the bottle of pills in your free hand. It would be easier to just take them. Right?

“Y/N, sweetheart, talk to me. Let me help you.”

You draw a shaky breath and it all spills out. The bullying, the loss of friendships, the years of pain and loneliness. The scars- neat rows of them- on your stomach and thighs. The months of useless therapy. The bottle of pills.

Even through the phone, you can sense that Dean is listening. He asks questions- ones Dr. Smith never asked. The important questions.

When you’re done talking, there’s a moment of silence. Then Dean says, “That’s a heavy load for anyone to bear, let alone someone so young. Can you do something for me?”

“Uh-huh,” you sniff.

“I need you to put those pills as far away as possible. Throw them away if you have to. Have someone hide them. Maybe put them in a locked room. I don’t care how you do it. Just remove the temptation. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“Go do that. I’ll be right here.”

You reluctantly set the phone down and take the pills to the bathroom. It take a lot of willpower, but you flush them. You hurry back to your room.

“They’re gone,” you murmur.

“Good. Listen closely. Can you do that?”

You nod. “yes.”

“Awesome. Wanna know something?”

“What?”

“I’ve been where you are.”

No way. Dean? Seriously? But he sounds so confident and cool and collected. Like he’s got the whole thing figured out. “Really?”

“Really. What I didn’t realize until it was almost too late was that there are people who care about me- family and friends. People who would be hurt if I left them like that. Y/N, I want you to close your eyes and think of the people you’re closest to. Family, friends, anyone.”

You close your eyes. The first person to pop into your head is your mom.

“Think about how you would feel if they killed themselves.”

You bite your lip to keep back the sob welling up in your chest.

“Now, how do you think they would feel if you killed yourself?”

This time there’s no stopping the sob. Tears streak your face. It still hurts, but somehow it feels better.

“How are you feeling?” Dean asks.

“Better.”

“Good. Well enough to hang up?”

You do feel well enough. “Yeah.”

“That’s great. I want you to do one more thing for me.”

"Okay.”

“Whoever you thought of, I want you to go find them, give them a hug, and tell them you love them. Tell them what just happened. It won’t be easy, but it will be worth it. Can you do that?”

“I can do that.”

“Awesome. I know you can. Bye, Y/N.”

“Bye, Dean.”

Sam:

Sam’s woken by the ringing of his phone. Groaning, he rolls over and fumbles for it on the nightstand. He doesn’t recognize the number.

“Hello?”

X X X X X X

Your hand tightens around the handle of your dad’s straight razor as the phone rings.

“Hello?” The voice is distinctly male, rich and sonorous. It’s laced with sleep, yet curious.

“H-hello,” you manage. “This is the Suicide Hotline, right?”

“Yes,” the man says after a moment. He sounds more awake now. “I’m Sam. What’s your name?”

Sam. The name fits the voice. Warm and homey. “Y/N,” you reply.

"Hi, Y/N. What can I help you with?” You adjust your grip on the razor, turning it so it catches the light. “I… I’m home alone. My mom… my mom is dead and my dad…”

“Doesn’t have the best coping mechanisms?” Sam finishes.

You nod. “yeah. And we just moved and now I’m just the freaky new kid with no mom and a crappy dad and no friends. I just feel so alone and… and sad all the time, and I just want it to be over!”

"Shhh, deep breaths. What do you have with you?”

“My dad’s straight razor.”

“So you have this all planned out.”

“Yeah.”

“Alright. I need you to put the razor down, as far from you as you can get it. Can you do that?”

You clutch the razor tighter. “But-”

“Y/N. Listen to me. I want to help you, but I can only help you if you’re willing to help yourself. Obviously some part of you doesn’t want to go through with this or we wouldn’t be talking right now. Right?”

He’s right. “Yes.”

“I’m speaking to that part of you. The part that wants to live bad enough to talk to a stranger about it. Put the razor down.”

You take a deep breath, carefully close the razor, and toss it to the far side of the bed.

“Is it gone?”

You nod, and then remember he can't see you. “Yeah.”

“Good. I'm glad. I'm going to tell you a story. Ready?”

A story? Seriously? “Sure.”

“Once upon a time…” it's like he hears your internal groan, because he stops with a chuckle. “I’m kidding. There was this kid I knew once. Great kid, really smart. His mom died when he was just a baby and his dad? Well, his dad did what yours is probably doing. They moved around a lot and this boy just got used to being the freaky new kid all the time. He got good grades and did his best to play well with others, but he inherited his dad's temper. He clashed with his dad a lot, too, more so as he got older. His dad wanted him to join in the family business, but he wanted to do his own thing. Well, he applied to every college he could and got the best grades possible. Guess what happened.”

“What?”

“He got a full ride to Stanford. He also got basically disowned by his father, but he left. He got out. He worked hard and got a 174 on his LSAT, and now? He’s a lawyer with a gorgeous wife who is a nurse. He is living his dream. But I'll tell you this: there was a point during his high school years where he sat exactly where you are and he made a decision. He decided to always keep fighting. Now it's your turn. What are you going to do?”

You look at the razor. Then you look at you calendar and the red circle around your eighteenth birthday. “I’m going to keep fighting,” you say, suddenly filled with conviction.

“Good. I'm glad to hear that.”

You lay back and stretch out, knocking the razor off the end of the bed as you do so. “Sam?”

“Yes?”

“Are you the guy in the story?”

There’s a long moment of silence. When Sam speaks again, there’s a hint of sorrow and longing in his voice. “No. But sometimes I wish I was.”

Cas:

It is very late when Castiel's phone rings. He frowns, torn between being still so as not to frighten the bees on his hand and moving to answer it. When it continues to ring, he reluctantly shoos the bees away and pulls it from the pockets of his suit pants.

“Hello?” he says, watching the bees land on some nearby flowers.

He hears a soft sniff, and then, “This is the Suicide Hotline, right?”

He’s not sure what a “hotline” is, but he knows suicide and he is most definitely concerned for the young human on the other end. “No,” he says. “I am afraid you have the wrong number. Regardless, I will strive to help you however I can. My name is Castiel.” he decides to use the story Dean helped him come up with for when he has to explain his name. “My parents were very religious. Castiel is the Angel of Thursday. It means ‘Shield of God.’ What is your name?”

The youth is quiet for a long moment. Then, hesitantly, they murmur, “Y/N.”

“That is a good name. Tell me, Y/N. Where are you?”

“On the bridge outside my town,” they respond. “Calico Bridge. It’s a very long fall.”

Calico Bridge. Cas rises and, with a soft flutter of his wings, flies to the location. He makes sure to land a good distance away, so he can see the youth but they cannot see or hear him. He will step in should they jump, but he does not wish to startled them.

The bridge is an older suspension bridge in a ravine of sorts and the youth in question is standing on the rail, one arm wrapped around a pole and the other holding the phone to their ear

“Why do you want to jump?” Cas asks, keeping a very close eye on Y/N.

“Because there's no point in living anymore. I don’t have friends. I don’t even have parents, really. They’re gone too much to qualify. I never see them. Do you know how many birthdays and Christmases they’ve missed? I just spend Thanksgiving all by myself for the fourth year in a row. Obviously they don't care. They won't miss me. No one will."

“I will miss you.”

“You? Why would you miss me? You barely even know me.”

“That does not mean I do not like you, nor that I do not care for you. If I didn't care, would I still be speaking with you?”

“You’re just being nice. Because it's the right thing to do.”

“At first. But I have grown to like you very much, Y/N. I would miss you greatly if you were to jump.”

Y/N snorts. “Yeah, right. You don't know me. I don’t know you.”

“I know you well enough. Tell me. What do you wish to become when you reach adulthood?”

“You talk weird.”

“So I’ve been told. You are avoiding the question.”

Y/N is quiet for a moment. “I want to be an author,” they finally finish.

“A worthy cause. Can you be an author if you jump?”

“No.”

“How many lives will your stories change if you step off that bridge?”

“None.”

“Do you still want to jump?”

“A little, but it is not as bad as before.”

“Are you going to get down?”

“Not yet, no.”

Suddenly, a strong gust of wind rips through the narrow ravine. Y/n cries out as they lose their grip and begin to fall forward. Cas reacts immediately. He swoops in, snatches Y/N out of the air with a strong arm around their waist, and lands them both safely on the bank of the river below. Y/N stares up at him with wide, terrified eyes. Their phone is still pressed to their ear, as is Cas’.

“Hello,” he says nervously, both to Y/N’s face and into the phone. “I’m going to hang up now.”

He tucks the phone in his pocket, still holding Y/N to him, as if they might fall again.

“You… I… what…?” Y/N stammers.

“My name is Castiel,” Cas says. “That is true. My name does mean ‘Shield of God.’ I suppose you could call me your Guardian Angel.”

“You’re an Angel?” the youth manages, phone hanging from their fingers. Cas gently takes the device and places it in the pocket of their sweatpants.

“Yes. Angel of Thursday, actually. But I have been assigned to protect and watch over you.”

“Me?”

“You. You, Y/N, have a great future ahead of you. It cannot happen if you jump off a bridge. Come on, let's get you home. Your mother is there and she is very worried.”

“My mom?”

He smiles fondly. “You ask a lot of questions. Yes, your mom. I'm going to return you to her.”

Before Y/N can say anything, he flies them back to their house, the location of which he gleaned from their thoughts. He lands at the end of the front walk. “My number is in your phone,” he says. “But you need not use it. Simply pray for me in any way and I will hear. I will come.” he holds their face in his hands and presses a tender kiss to their forehead. “Do not hesitate to ask for me. Now, go. Your mother is waiting.”

He remains there a long time after Y/N goes inside, watching the youth and adult interact through a window. As mother and child embrace, tears wetting every cheek, he finally returns to his bees.


End file.
